


For the World's End

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fourth Age, Gen, Guilt, Hope if you squint, Loneliness, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Kinslayings, More angst, Post-Canon, Tol Eressëa, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: Maedhros leaves the Halls of Mandos, builds a house on a hill and hopes Maglor, the only one of his brothers not lost in the Everlasting Darkness, will return.





	For the World's End

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Silmarillion fanfic. I haven't written in ages, so my writing might be rusty, but this book inspired me. This work is unbetaed and I am not a native speaker, so please forgive me the mistakes that are bound to be here.
> 
> This fic is based on [this tumblr post](https://lendmyboyfriendahand.tumblr.com/post/176679049310/saddest-reborn-in-valinor-fic-idea-all-the) by [tehhumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehhumi/pseuds/tehhumi). Thank you so much for the idea!

Maedhros agrees when Námo offers him to go back. He’s tired of wandering in the endless Halls alone, looking at the grim tapestries and remembering. He has made peace with himself and his past, or so he believes. And he hopes…

“My brother?” he dares to ask Námo on the way out. He doesn’t specify which one. He knows the fate of the other five perfectly well. The thought has never left his mind. His father and five of his brothers, doomed to the Everlasting Darkness for failing to keep the Oath.

“Has not returned yet,” Námo declares in a voice that holds no emotion.

\- - -

Dwelling in Tirion is considered risky, so Maedhros is sent to Tol Eressëa. He cannot bring himself to care. The Halls extinguished the fire that used to burn in him so brightly. He’s glad for it. He is tired of burning. He probably wouldn’t return to Tirion given the choice. There is nothing left for him there. (He doesn’t think of his mother, can’t, won’t.)

Tol Eressëa is a good place for someone who wants to hide. The dense forests, full of game, and the high hills with fertile soil allow Maedhros to avoid making contact with anyone for quite a long time until he needs goods that don’t grow or live in the woods. He makes a bow and arrows, hunts and exchanges meat and fur in the market of Avallónë with what he needs. The language they speak in Avallónë is a mix of Noldorin, Telerin, and Sindarin and at first seems nearly incomprehensible to Maedhros, but he is quick to learn it once he can recognize the patterns.

He builds a house for himself on the top of a green hill. It’s not easy to do it alone, but he is in no hurry and has two hands. His house is simple and small, made mostly of wood. He has a garden where he grows vegetables, one apple tree, and one pear tree. In a paddock next to his house, he keeps a few sheep. The windows of the house overlook the port. He spends many days staring at it. Every time he spots a ship from Middle-earth in the distance, he pulls his hood on and goes down to the city, hoping against hope to see his brother, his only brother who has not been swallowed by darkness. Every time his hopes are shattered. There is no news of Maglor, he learns from the Teleri trader he does business with, many don’t even know his name. Maedhros doesn’t know if the trader has guessed who he is. If she has, she gives no sign of it and calls him by the false name he goes under. 

There is little hope, he knows, it’s not likely Maglor will return if he hasn’t for thousands of years. And even if he does, will he ever forgive Maedhros? Will he forgive his follies, his weakness, his desertion? It does not matter. He doesn’t dare to hope for forgiveness, he only hopes for his brother’s return, for an end to Maglor’s pain. He can’t lose hope. Can’t think about wishing to join his father and his brothers in the Everlasting Darkness, while Maglor is still in this world, wandering somewhere. 

So every time there is a ship, he hopes.

 

_Finrod_

Maedhros is checking his traps when he hears voices. It alarms him. The Elves of Tol Eressëa rarely come so far. That’s the reason Maedhros has chosen this place to live (that and the view of the port). He moves back, staying under the shadow of the trees, but the voices come closer. 

He sees Finrod at the same time his cousin notices him. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Finrod is not alone. He’s with a silver-haired girl, whose resemblance to Galadriel is so striking that Maedhros immediately realizes she is Finrod’s daughter. They are dressed for hunting, and the girl has her bow out and ready. 

Finrod takes half a step towards his cousin, but steps back just as Maedhros almost instinctively retreats. 

“Let’s go this way,” Finrod says softly to his daughter, pointing to the opposite direction from Maedhros.

“But the deer went there,” the girl says.

“We need to get back,” Finrod says. 

The urgency in his voice stops his daughter from arguing. She nods and starts walking. Finrod can’t resist a last look over his shoulder, but Maedhros has made sure to hide from his view. 

Walking to his house, he suddenly feels the tangible, suffocating veil of loneliness fall over him. He wonders if he should have approached. He and Finrod used to be friendly. But then, Finrod was friendly with everyone, and it had been before the unpleasant incident in Nargothrond, before Doriath, before the Havens. Before Maedhros led most of his brothers to darkness and abandoned the last one. Finrod could have approached himself if he wanted to. Maybe he would have if his daughter had not been with him? Was he afraid that any harm could come to her? Does he not have a reason for it? Maybe he noticed that Maedhros was hiding? Maybe he was kind enough to respect Maedhros’s privacy? Or maybe he just didn’t want to see Maedhros and didn’t want his daughter to come into contact with him as though he was afraid she would be contaminated. He has a reason for that too.

Maedhros takes his seat on the cliff and waits. No ship sails by that day.

 

_Nerdanel_

Being spotted by Finrod gives a solid form to the thought Maedhros has been resolutely ignoring. He has to visit his mother. He can hardly admit it to himself, but the hope that he would visit her after Maglor returned home had been blooming in a deep corner of his heart. Then he would have to explain why he led five, not six, of her sons to ruin. Maglor’s presence would assuage her endless grief. Their mother had always loved him so.

Now he has to visit her alone. Finrod certainly won’t keep the secret to himself. At the very least he will be obliged to tell his father and Fingolfin, and from there it’s only a matter of time before it reaches the ears of Nerdanel. Maedhros doesn’t want her to find out like that. Doesn’t want to hurt her more than he already has. 

And he wants to see her. He longs for her embrace, for her gentle words, for the way she used to make him see reason beyond his childish whims. He knows it will never happen, knows she will turn away from him, will curse him for returning alone, for leaving his brothers in the dark. He knows. He tries to prepare himself for it, but it doesn’t make him any less afraid to face her. Still, his heart is fluttering with anticipation as much as with dread. His shame was powerful enough to keep him away, but Finrod’s surprise appearance is forcing his hand, and he’s going to allow it. Even if all he can have is just a look at his mother’s beloved face, he will take it.

He chooses the biggest ship going to the mainland. It’s easier to get lost among the crowd. He hides his hair and face under a hood and finds an isolated corner. The road to Tirion lies through Alqualondë. The road from Mandos to Tol Eressëa probably lay through it too. Or maybe it didn’t. Maedhros wasn’t in a state of awareness for much of it, still too stunned from the simple happiness of breathing and having a heartbeat. 

Alqualondë is as effortlessly majestic as he remembers. Mellow waves caress the white sand on the shore. Its glittering brightness complements the silver-grey, pearl-covered buildings better than the soft golden glow Laurelin used to give it. There are many ships in the harbor, but none of them is swan-shaped. There is one in the square, a statue of a burning ship, a memorial. Even one look is enough for Maedhros to understand it is his mother’s work. He approaches it slowly. Unlike the graceful swan ships, the memorial is made in rough stone. It is very Noldorin in appearance and yet evokes the pain of the Teleri with such intensity that Maedhros suddenly hears the whistle of arrows, sees the pristine sand drinking greedily the red, red blood. So much red. He had not seen that much red before that day in Alqualondë. He turns his back to the monument and walks away. He leaves the city as fast as he can, hurrying through the surprisingly narrow pass of Calacirya. Under the Sun, Tirion upon Túna glimmers like a white gem so bright that Maedhros has to shield his eyes. It takes him a few moments of intensive blinking to be able to look at it again. Approaching it, Maedhros notices how much it has changed. The city has expanded, encompassing not only the hill but also the surrounding valleys. New towers have risen, great, white and imposing, dwarfing even Mindon Eldaliéva. A stronger, higher wall has been built around the new borders of the city, but the gates are open, and no one stops Maedhros when he goes in. 

His uncle has not been idle. The city is busier than he remembers; the streets are wider; the fountains sing louder; the arches are decorated with intricately detailed engravings. Upon closer inspection, Maedhros realizes that many of them depict the War of Wrath. He sees the fall of Ancalagon, the second chaining of Morgoth, and even, he realizes with a jolt, the retrieval of the Silmarils. He sees none picturing their theft. He still pulls at the edges of the hood covering his head. 

The people are speaking a language vaguely resembling the dialect of Tirion he spoke once, but it is different enough to make Maedhros sound like a foreigner if he tries to address anyone. He isn’t going to. He could find the way to his grandfather Mahtan’s house if it were buried under the sea. 

The house still looks the same. There are new buildings all around it, but Mahtan’s house has not changed. It looks like the sheet holding the past away has been torn off at one place and has spat out this vision. It takes Maedhros’s breath away for a moment. Shaking his head, he approaches the gate. This one is closed. He knocks at it once, shuts his eyes, knocks louder. Minutes pass. Maedhros knocks again, though his heartbeat deafens the sound in his ears. Finally, the door opens, and a round face looks at Maedhros quizzically. She’s young, young enough not to recognize Maedhros, although she looks suspiciously at a strand of hair visible under his hood. Maedhros tucks it away.

“I am looking for Lady Nerdanel,” he says slowly, hoping the girl will understand his ancient speech.

She apparently doesn’t because she keeps looking at him with her large eyes.

“Nerdanel?” Maedhros tries again, “The sculptor. Mahtan’s daughter... Fëanáro’s wife. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but...” The girl blinks quickly. “The Lady is gone. Her parents too.”

“Gone? What? Where?”

“To Mandos.” His expression must be an odd one because the girl’s eyes become even wider and she hurries to explain. “My grandmother was a student of hers, and we are looking after the house until... Well, we hope that they will return. But it has been ages. I haven’t even met her. She left shortly after the Great War, uh, how do they call it? The War of Wrath. Her parents followed her. I once heard grandma mention,” she lowers her voice, “that the Lady intended to go to the Everlasting Darkness after her... Are-are you all right? Do you need to sit? You may come in, I will make tea.”

“No. I’m fine,” Maedhros says curtly. Then he remembers his manners and bows slightly to the girl. “Thank you,” he says and turns back.

He walks along the streets of Tirion, unaware of his surroundings. His mother is gone. She must have heard what happened, must have known what they had done, must have lost hope her sons would return. And she went to Mandos. His strong, stubborn mother was so hurt by the actions of her sons that she gave up on life. Or is it possible... But no, she can’t, can she? Maedhros himself wanted it, demanded it, begged for it. No one answered him, no one let him go after his father, after his brothers. Will she ever come back? She has been gone for so long. Maybe if Maglor returns... She loved Maglor so much. Maedhros himself had no news of the outside world when he was in Mandos, but his mother hasn’t done anything remotely as terrible as he has. Maybe she will be informed and she will return. 

His hood has fallen off, but he doesn’t notice. He keeps walking. His feet find the way even among the new streets and squares, and suddenly he becomes aware that he is in front of their old house. This is where they lived whenever they stayed in Tirion. Maedhros stares at it. Unlike Mahtan’s house, it has changed. It has a larger garden; the façade has been freshly painted; the windows are open, and the Fëanorian star is on the white gates of the house. There is also someone working in the forge. Maedhros can hear the hammer. Almost unwittingly, he goes around the house and pushes the back door that leads straight to the forge. It’s open. The forge door is also open and the elf working there, his dark hair pulled back, looks so much like his father that for a moment Maedhros is again lost in the surreal sensation of the past breaking in waves on the shores of now. 

“Curvo?” he whispers before he can stop himself.

The elf looks back. It is not his brother.

 

_Celebrimbor_

Maedhros stares at his poor nephew for so long that Celebrimbor invites him to have a glass of cold tea. Probably out of sheer awkwardness. They sit in the garden, under the shade of an ancient yew tree Fëanor planted with his own hands on the day the twins were born. As Celebrimbor brings the promised tea, Maedhros suddenly realizes that he resembles Grandfather Finwë more than he resembles his own grandfather or father, but there is something from Nerdanel in his demeanor that makes Maedhros look away. 

He tries to make conversation. Celebrimbor is polite but cold. He speaks in a weird mixture of Quenya and Sindarin and calls his uncle _my lord Maedhros_ , despite Maedhros’s insistence that he’s hardly a lord and certainly not Celebrimbor’s lord.

Maedhros asks him about the star. Celebrimbor shrugs.

“They all know who I am,” he says, “And so do I.”

Maedhros can see the unbridled pride in his eyes and he is overcome with fierce love for his nephew. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Celebrimbor is proud of his grandfather and his unrivaled work. He is not proud of what Maedhros and his brothers did.

“This is still the best forge in the city,” Celebrimbor continues and his face lights up, “Some people talked, but great-uncles never stopped me.” After a pause, he asks politely and a little warily, “Do you intend to abide in Tirion, my lord? I believe it would be a much bigger scandal than my return to grandfather’s premises, but if you talked to Lord Arafinwë or Lord Nolofinwë...”

“No,” Maedhros says, “I have already settled in Tol Eressëa.”

He has no desire to see Finarfin or Fingolfin and doubts they do. If he knew Celebrimbor was here, he would probably avoid him as well.

He looks at his nephew and cannot reconcile the person he sees with the child he used to pamper, away from Curufin’s watchful eyes, or with the young, frightened elf he was on the ships, on the way to Middle-earth. He didn’t have much time for Celebrimbor after Losgar. There were battles, his father’s death, his capture, his recovery, and then he was in Himring, away from his brothers and his nephew. He rarely saw Celebrimbor before Dagor Bragollach and never saw him after. 

“When did you come back?” he asks, trying to change the subject and to understand if Celebrimbor might have fresh news from Middle-earth.

“Do you mean when I came back from Mandos? A few decades ago. I spent nearly two ages there.”

The glass almost slips out of Maedhros’s hand. He assumed that Celebrimbor had returned in a ship. He had no reason for it, but he still hoped that someone from the House of Fëanor could escape the curse. He wonders how Celebrimbor died. He nearly asks about it, but something in his nephew’s eyes stops him. He guesses it is not good manners to ask people about their death. Instead, he sips his tea and tells Celebrimbor how good it is. The younger elf nods tersely. 

The conversation dwindles. Maedhros isn’t used to talking, and Celebrimbor apparently isn’t either, although his issue might be with the interlocutor. It is hard to find something to talk about when death, family and the Silmarils have to be avoided. Maedhros asks Celebrimbor about his work instead, and the coldness dissipates a little. He smiles at the younger elf’s passionate description of his newest creation in the forge. When he is excited, his speech pattern resembles Celegorm’s, Maedhros decides, although his certain gestures strongly remind Maedhros of his sister-in-law. He tells Celebrimbor the part about his mother, and his nephew gives him half a smile.

“Is she... around?” Maedhros asks carefully.

“Yes, she often visits me,” Celebrimbor answers, “She will be here soon. Would you like to see her, my lord?”

Maedhros isn’t sure but nods anyway. He suddenly dreads the trip back alone, through the strange new streets of Tirion, through the mountains and Alqualondë. They sit for a while in silence until the gates open and a woman’s voice calls Celebrimbor.

Curufin’s wife is cold like her son, but nowhere near as polite. After overcoming her surprise, she looks at Maedhros with open distaste. 

“Why are you back?” she says.

Maedhros opens his mouth to answer but realizes that he doesn’t know what she means. Does she mean why he was permitted to leave? Or does she mean why _he_ was permitted to leave and not her husband? Why he wasn’t the one lost in the Darkness? Why Curufin or Caranthir or Amras? Is she angry that it isn’t her husband who is standing now in front of her, next to Celebrimbor? Their parting was bitter, but their love was fierce. Curufin never doubted she was the love of his life from the moment he met her. Neither did she. 

Maedhros remembers their wedding, remembers how he danced with his sister-in-law, remembers how she laughed. They teased Curufin until his brother went deep crimson and told them to shut up, but there was laughter in his eyes. Maedhros wishes he had treasured that moment more because after the Darkening he never saw something like that again. Curufin still laughed, but more and more it sounded like the distorted version of their father’s laughter in Losgar, and at times it made Maedhros want to close his ears.

“I was going to visit my mother,” he says.

Her smile is pained. “She has left. She has gone after you.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you still doing here?”

“Mother...” Celebrimbor starts.

“I’m leaving,” Maedhros interrupts, “It was good seeing you... both.”

He pulls his hood over his head and leaves through the back door. He departs from the city that was once his home and doesn’t look back. He doesn’t linger in Alqualondë, takes the first ship to Tol Eressëa, hiding from the other passengers again. He wishes he had at least hugged Celebrimbor or apologized or said something meaningful. He wishes he had not met him or his sister-in-law. The meeting has peeled the scab off his wounds and left them bleeding again. Maedhros can feel the taste of blood in his throat; it turns breathing he so treasured after returning into a painful chore. 

The sight of his house on the top of the hill makes it a little easier. There is no one here, no one he has let down, no one he has disappointed, no one he has hurt. No one to blame him.

Maedhros carves a small eight-pointed star on his door and goes to tend to his garden, keeping an eye on the sea.

 

_Fingon_

Maedhros suspected that his visit to Tirion might have consequences, but he still freezes when he returns home after a hunt and sees Fingon sitting on the rough wooden bench in front of his house. His cousin must have heard him approach because he doesn’t look very surprised. His eyes just widen a notch when he sees his old friend through the trees.

Maedhros forces himself to move. His heartbeat is slow and calm and his hands aren’t shaking, but the air has suddenly changed its consistency, has become thicker, denser, and he has to make an effort to cleave through it. His head is full of cotton. He sits down in front of Fingon, on the trunk of a felled tree, with as much grace as he can muster.

“Findekáno,” he says.

Fingon takes a small breath at the sound of his voice. “I wanted to see if the rumors were true,” he says.

“They are.”

Fingon says nothing. He is staring at Maedhros’s hand, the right one. Maedhros would give both of his hands just to stop Fingon from looking at him as though he doesn’t recognize him. After his rescue, Fingon was one of the few who didn’t gape at him like he was a stranger. Fingon looked at him the way he had in Valinor. Maedhros wasn’t the same person he had been and would never be again. They both knew it, but the way Fingon looked at him hadn’t changed. Not when Fingon cut off his hand, not when they met at the Mereth Aderthad, not when Fingon took the crown and not when he wholeheartedly agreed to support Maedhros’s disastrous union. 

It was the last time Maedhros saw Fingon. He was too far away from him on the battlefield and didn’t witness Fingon’s death. He considered it a blessing until his mind started picturing it, adding more and more grisly details.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros says.

Fingon looks at him. Maedhros has always been able to read Fingon, but now there are so many conflicting emotions in his eyes that Maedhros doesn’t know what to make of it. There is relief, confusion, some disappointment, but everything is covered with a sheen of red-hot anger.

“What are you sorry for?” he says in a quiet, furious voice, so unlike Fingon, “For destroying Doriath? For killing and kidnapping children? For targeting my brother’s family? For slaughtering refugees? For attacking the army of Valinor? What are you apologizing for, Maitimo?”

“For your death,” Maedhros says.

Fingon lets out a bitter, incredulous laugh. “That’s one thing I don’t blame you for.” He shakes his head. “How could you? Wasn’t Alqualondë enough? How could you do it twice more? My brother’s family, Nelyo. Because of you Turukáno had already...” He stops abruptly, embarrassed. Maedhros nearly smiles. Fingon, honorable as ever, doesn’t want to bring up the Ice for which he gave his forgiveness long ago. “You attacked people who had already suffered, some of them because of you," Fingon continues, recovering, "You attacked, you killed people who had won the war against the Enemy, the one who had killed grandfather, had killed your father and had held you hostage. Or have you forgotten...”

“I have not,” Maedhros interrupts, “What do you want me to say, Findekáno? Do you think I don’t regret it? Do you think I don’t wish it had gone differently? Do you think I don’t remember their faces, their voices? Do you think I don't know what I've done? Do you want me to apologize? I’m sorry. I am. I would spend centuries apologizing if I knew it meant anything. Who would want to hear my apology? What can I do to erase the past, to correct the mistakes? What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Fingon says.

“Yes. Nothing.”

Fingon shakes his head. “I didn’t believe it when I was told. I thought you would never do it again, not after Alqualondë. I thought you and Makalaurë were the most reasonable out of you seven. I thought you two could have...” 

“It was my fault,” Maedhros says, a little forcefully, “If you need someone to blame, here I am. My brother was only following me. He tried to convince me to surrender, he tried to stop me, but I would not listen.” 

“He could have refused to follow you,” Fingon says quietly. 

Maedhros closes his eyes for a moment. 

“He didn’t want to abandon me,” he says.

It’s the first time he has allowed himself to think about it away from the Halls. Maglor followed him because he didn’t want to leave his brother alone. He took Maedhros’s responsibility upon himself and knowingly went into a disaster, while Maedhros, who should have been the one taking care of his younger brother, deserted him. Maglor could have been in Aman now if not for Maedhros. Whatever the judgment was, it would have been over by now, and maybe Maglor could have been happy, and maybe their mother would have stayed. 

He looks up and is almost surprised to see Fingon sitting there, a look of concern on his face. Maedhros curls his hands into fists to stop them from reaching out to his friend. 

“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, Findekáno?” he asks.

Fingon blinks. “What were you doing in Tirion?” he asks after a pause.

Maedhros smirks. So this is the reason he is here. “I am not forbidden from visiting the city of my birth,” he says.

He watches Fingon try to compose himself. “I am not saying you are,” he says slowly, “But if you intend to move to Tirion...”

“I do not,” Maedhros says, “This is my home now. I only wanted to visit my mother. Is it a crime?”

“Your mother...” Fingon bows his head. “I’m sorry. But I have been told you visited your nephew too.”

Maedhros stares at him. “It was an accident. He has nothing to do with it. You can tell my uncles they have no reason to worry. I will not cause trouble, I will not lead another rebellion, I will not even visit Tirion again if I can help it. They need not send envoys to make sure I behave. Will that be all, Findekáno, or is there more?”

Fingon looks away. “No,” he says, “That is all.” He stands and fastens his cloak. For a moment he hesitates, then shakes his head. “Take care, Maitimo,” he says and walks away.

With tremendous effort, Maedhros keeps himself from turning back. He remains sitting on the trunk long after Fingon’s footsteps die in the distance. His white-knuckled hands are gripping his knees. Fingon didn’t understand, he could not. Why should he? No one can. No one will. Only Maglor. He wonders if that is one reason he longs for his brother’s return: to have someone who understands. Selfish. Selfish, as always. 

He finally forces himself to move. There is a lot to be done in the garden, but instead, he goes to his spot on the rock and watches the horizon.

 

_Elrond_

The air in the city is thick with excitement. The marketplace is crowded, and there are even more people in the harbor. Maedhros came down as soon as he noticed the ship and was surprised to see the commotion. He approaches his Telerin acquaintance. 

“What is going on?” he asks, “Why are there so many people here?”

“For the ship,” she answers, “There is talk that Lady Eärwen’s daughter has returned with the son of the Star and...”

Maedhros takes off so quickly that he doesn’t hear the rest of it. The son of the Star, she said, she must mean Elrond or Elros. But why only one is here? Has the other one decided to stay in Middle-earth? Maybe he will arrive later? Maybe it was a mistake and both of them are on the ship? Or maybe... He shakes his head. He will find out soon. 

Galadriel is also returning. Maedhros decides it will be best to avoid her. It would be reasonable to avoid the boy too (not a boy, they were boys ages ago; it is hard to remember), but Maedhros has missed them too much to care. He loved the twins though he was never as close to them as Maglor was. They reminded him too much of other twins: one pair was lost in the winter of Doriath, the other bled out on the bank of Sirion. Maglor grew attached to them for the same reason. Unlike Maedhros, he took responsibility for his actions. He found the courage to face his pain instead of running away from it as Maedhros did. Maglor sheltered the boys and then let them go when it was necessary, even though it broke his heart to pieces. It is only now that Maedhros is thinking about that. Back then, he was too self-centered, too absorbed in his own pain to notice his brother’s. He left Maglor to suffer alone. But now he has a new hope. The son of the Star is the most likely person to have news from the elf who raised him and his brother as his own.

Maedhros is running without looking around. His hair is uncovered, and he sticks out like a very long sore thumb in the crowd of dark, blonde and silver heads. He stops and hides behind a fish stand a moment before Galadriel raises her head and looks in his direction. His breath catches in his throat when he sees who he has come here for. Elrond. It’s Elrond. He stands tall with a kind smile on his face, the same one Maedhros remembers, although tinged with grief. A silver-haired woman is in his arms. Maedhros’s vision blurs for a moment, and when it clears again, he sees that the woman is embracing Galadriel, who is surrounded by her family. Out of the corner of his eye, Maedhros notices Finarfin, Eärwen, Finrod and his daughter. There is also a Maia disguised as an old man and two small, strange creatures. 

Maedhros doesn’t reflect on them. His look follows Elrond, who has walked farther away to be greeted by a woman. Maedhros recognizes her with shock as Elwing. Her companion must be Eärendil. There is no Silmaril visible, and Maedhros is relieved. Elrond and his parents are moving away from the Arafinwëons. Maedhros decides that this may be his only chance. Elwing and Eärendil will not be too happy to see him. Last time he saw Elwing, she jumped into the sea to escape him and his sword. He has never met Eärendil but doubts the celebrated mariner harbors any warm feelings towards him. It doesn’t stop Maedhros. The determination in his steps surprises even himself.

“Elrond,” he calls.

The peredhel turns to face him. “Maedhros?” he says, astonished.

A smile creeps upon Maedhros’s face without his permission. “You have grown,” he says.

“I did not expect to see you here,” Elrond says, “Although I dared to hope.”

Maedhros wants to hug him, but Elwing’s thunderous look and Eärendil’s protective one stop him. Elrond has no such qualms and easily embraces him. Maedhros’s smile has nothing to do with Eärendil’s shocked gasp. 

“Why are you alone?” Maedhros asks, finally pulling away, “Where is your brother?”

Elwing makes a pained noise in her throat. Elrond’s smile disappears. “He chose another way,” he says, “The Gift of Men.”

Maedhros stares, stricken. Elros, the boisterous, brave and intelligent child Maedhros knew, is gone. Elrond has lost his brother and will not see him until the world is broken and remade. Just like Maedhros will not see his. All except one. He still has a chance to see Maglor before the world’s end.

As soon as he opens his mouth, Elrond, as though reading his mind, asks, “What about...” He looks at his parents. “What about Maglor? Is he here too?”

Maedhros’s heart sinks. “No. You have not seen him? Not even once?”

“Not after you sent us away,” Elrond says. His eyes mirror Maedhros’s grief, “I looked for him, but never found him. There were so many contradicting tales circulating about him. Some said he had cast himself into the sea, some said he was still wondering on distant shores, others said he had left for Aman. I hoped he would be here.”

“No,” Maedhros says quietly, “No, he is not.”

The world seems to crumble around him, but he knows it is not or he would feel something other than despair. He would be glad because the world’s ending would mean he could see his parents and his brothers again. Even if it were just for a moment, it would be enough for him to beg forgiveness. But he is still here, and he still has no one. Not his mother, not Celebrimbor, not even Fingon. Only Elrond. Elrond, who is looking at him with concern and immense pain in his eyes because once again Maedhros was thinking only about himself by coming here and bothering him, hurting him when he should have been celebrating with his family.

He wants to tell Elrond that, but he can only utter his name before Elwing interrupts.

“That’s enough,” she says fiercely, “How dare you to come here and talk to him after what you have done? What right do you have to torment my son like this?”

“Mother,” Elrond says calmly, “Maedhros is family.”

“No, he is not,” Elwing says, “He is the one who took you from your family.”

There are tears in her voice but only boundless anger in her eyes. Maedhros’s left hand flies to his belt, an old habit, before he remembers that he has removed his knife from there before descending to the city. Noticing the movement, Eärendil comes forward to stand before his wife and son. His narrowed eyes lock on Maedhros’s face.

A hand grips Maedhros’s arm, and he barely curbs his instinct to hit whoever the hand is attached to. It turns out to be Finrod.

“Let’s go, Maitimo,” he says.

Elrond looks like he is about to protest, but Finrod shakes his head with the air of someone who knows what he is doing, and Galadriel pulls Elrond away. She whispers something, and he stays silent. 

Maedhros follows Finrod across the harbor without a word. He realizes they have been walking towards the forest only when they stop on the beginning of the path leading to his hill. 

“Were you trying to pick up a fight with our distant cousin?” Finrod asks with a hint of a smile.

“No,” Maedhros says hollowly.

Finrod sighs. “You should go home and rest. Do you want me to accompany you? I promise I will not talk. Or sing.”

“No,” Maedhros says. “Thank you,” he adds belatedly.

“Maitimo, you don’t have to isolate yourself,” Finrod says, “You are welcome to visit us in our house here, in Tol Eressëa. We spend most of the year here and will be happy to see you.”

Finrod has never learned to lie convincingly, Maedhros thinks.

“Thank you,” he says.

He leaves Finrod at the edge of the forest and walks to his house. He feels dizzy as if instead of walking he is floating aimlessly, with no sense of direction; as if his connection to the world has been severed; as if he has lost something that kept him moving and breathing. It is hope that has been lost, he realizes dully, the hope that he would see the last of his brothers again before the world ends. 

He walks past his house, sits on the edge of the cliff and stares unseeing into the sea. He waits.


End file.
